A little of it clung to
her still. She could look back at those months of loneliness, of
immeasurable toil and numberless indignities, without any qualms. There
would be no repetition of that. The world at large would say she had
done well. She herself in her most cynical moments could not deny that
she had done well. Materially, life promised to be generous. She was
married to a man who quietly but inexorably got what he wanted, and it
was her good fortune that he wanted her to have the best of everything.
She saw him now coming from the hotel, and she regarded him
thoughtfully, a powerful figure swinging along with light, effortless
steps. He was back on his own ground, openly glad to be back. Yet she
could not recall that he had ever shown himself at a disadvantage
anywhere they had been together. He wore evening clothes when occasion
required as unconcernedly as he wore mackinaws and calked boots among
his loggers. She had not yet determined whether his equable poise arose
from an unequivocal democracy of spirit, or from sheer egotism. At any
rate, where she had set out with subtle misgivings, she had to admit
that socially, at least, Jack Fyfe could play his hand at any turn of
the game. Where or how he came by this faculty, she did not know. In
fact, so far as Jack Fyfe's breeding and antecedents were concerned, she
knew little more than before their marriage. He was not given to
reminiscence. His people--distant relatives--lived in her own native
state of Pennsylvania.
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